


Make a Deal

by Inell



Series: 2020 Writing Project [2]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Attraction, Childhood Friends, Flirting, Friends to Enemies to Friends, Jackson & Stiles were childhood friends, M/M, Post-Kanima, Set after Season 2, You can take that headcanon from my cold dead hands, before season 3
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-07
Updated: 2020-05-07
Packaged: 2021-03-02 18:54:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,508
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24061690
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Inell/pseuds/Inell
Summary: Jackson has a difficult decision to make, and he makes Stiles a deal.
Relationships: Stiles Stilinski/Jackson Whittemore
Series: 2020 Writing Project [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1735702
Comments: 34
Kudos: 409





	Make a Deal

**Author's Note:**

> Wrote this because I've thought about it for ages but couldn't make words happen. Hope you enjoy it!

“So it’s true then.”

“How did you get in here?” Jackson slowly lowers the shirt he’s folding and stares at his open doorway.

“Your mom still loves me.” Stiles shrugs and flashes that shit-eating grin that makes Jackson’s fingers twitch because he wants to slap it off that smug face. Or maybe it’s because he wants to touch but knows he can’t.

“No accounting for taste, obviously,” Jackson sniffs, knowing it’s true even if he’ll never admit it. His mom adores Stiles, constantly asks about him even now. Fortunately, his dad has no use for Stiles, never did when they were children who declared themselves best friends forever, and doesn’t now, so his mom doesn’t guilt trip him as often whenever his dad’s around.

Forever had turned out to be a mere three years before they’d had some stupid fight that he doesn’t even remember anymore but, at the time, had been bad enough to ruin their friendship and had led to an animosity that’s followed them into high school. He thinks it was probably McCall’s fault, because he really can’t stand that guy, but it’s more likely it was his and Stiles’ fault.

It’s been years since they were friends, and Jackson chooses to believe that it was merely temporary insanity that had weakened his defenses enough to make him susceptible to Stiles in the first place. There’s really no other explanation for his lapse in judgement. Now, Stiles is in his bedroom giving him a look that makes him feel a bit like he’s being dissected. It’s not the best feeling, and it rankles his nerves. “What?” he finally snaps.

“Nothin’.” Stiles shrugs before entering Jackson’s bedroom like he belongs there. He hasn’t been there in years, though, and Jackson can feel the wolf inside him starting to stir when Stiles touches his dresser. He doesn’t even realized he’s growled until Stiles is looking at him. “So I guess that answers one question.”

“What do you want, Mischief?” Jackson is too tired for this bullshit. The past two weeks have been the worst he’s ever experienced, from dying to coming back to finding out he’s unknowingly killed more people than he can count to finally giving in to his parents’ suggestion of getting away from this hellhole.

The use of the childhood name seems to catch Stiles by surprise. Jackson can’t even take any satisfaction in it. Well, not much. There’s always a little when he can get the upper hand with Stiles. Stiles recovers quickly, which is interesting because Stiles isn’t usually so smooth and put together when it comes to shit like that. Jackson narrows his eyes slightly when Stiles picks up an old baseball off his dresser and starts tossing it from one hand to the other. “That’s kind of an open question, isn’t it, Jax? I mean, I want world peace and a government that gives a shit about its citizens and copies of the Argent’s bestiary and—“

“None of those things involve you coming to my house and pestering me while fondling all my shit.” He puts the shirt down and crosses the room in three big steps. He grabs the baseball as it lands in Stiles’ right hand, his fingers moving around the dirty casing as he hears Stiles’ heartrate increase.

“If I was fondling your shit, you’d know it,” Stiles mutters, a slight flush spreading over his face. He tightens his fingers around the baseball, and Jackson wonders if he’s going to fight him for it.

There’s a part of him that perks up at the thought, that wants to fight, wants to win. He glances down at their joined hands, distracted by those long nimble fingers that he hasn’t ever felt on his skin, remembering shorter fingers holding his hand on the playground as they ran a race and beat that older kid who tried bullying them. The sound of Stiles clearing his throat makes him blink and drop his hand, stepping back automatically. Stiles is staring at him again, that intense ‘I’m going to be the first person to solve this puzzle’ look that makes Jackson uncomfortable for several different reasons.

“Why’s your face busted up?” He remembers seeing Stiles the night he died. The night he came back. When Lydia kissed him and brought him back to himself somehow. He hadn’t known what was happening, too much going on at once, but he’d seen Stiles and that had given him some kind of calm during all that chaos because he _knows_ Stiles even if they aren’t friends anymore. But he doesn’t remember much about it, some bruises and a busted lip, and that beat up old Jeep that belonged to his mom being fucked up.

“It’s not.” Stiles self-consciously raises his left hand, touching his face while still looking at Jackson—studying him. “Oh, yeah. The lip. I keep biting it so the wound reopens. Us mere humans can’t heal like you werewolves?”

The way he says the last word make it sounds like a question. Jackson rolls his eyes even as he clenches his fingers into fists to avoid touching that damn lip. “Yeah, guess I am now. Figuring it out.” He doesn’t mention the tail that he gets whenever he’s overly emotional, the lizard-like appendage too much to understand when he’s trying to accept everything else.

“Good. That’s good.” Stiles looks at the baseball, rubbing his thumb over the word Mischief, written a decade ago by him when he gave the ball to Jackson for his birthday. It had been for Jackson, but Stiles had still marked it, still shared in it. They’d shared everything back then. “Can’t believe you still have this old thing.”

“What? You figured I’d throw away a perfectly decent ball just because the person who gave it to me was a fucking prick?” Jackson reaches out and grabs the ball from Stiles, not acknowledging that his fingers stroke Stiles’ palm when they shouldn’t have even had to touch him. He shows the side where his name is, written by Stiles at the same time he’d also signed the ball. “Anyway, my name’s on it, too.”

“I’m not here to fight.” Stiles holds his hands up like he’s dealing with a skittish animal before running his hand over his buzzed head. “Fuck if I even know why I _am_ here.”

“Then you can leave. Door’s over there.” Jackson tosses the baseball in the box he’s packing, keeping an eye on Stiles because he doesn’t trust him. No, that’s wrong. If there’s anyone in this world he trusts, it’s Stiles, much as he’d die before admitting it. But Stiles being in his bedroom has him on edge, the smell of Stiles mixing with the smells of his private space more than he can handle right now, and he’s trying to stay in control.

“Since when did you become a coward?” Stiles asks, pinning Jackson down again with that serious gaze. “I thought Scott was full of shit when he said he’d heard you were running away.”

“I’m not running away!” Jackson snaps, growling a bit. “I’m taking a break from this hellmouth. That’s all.”

“Yeah, well, it looks like running from here.” Stiles rubs the top of his head, the way he does when he’s frustrated or when McCall says something stupid. Which is often. “Do you thinking moving away is going to change anything?”

“It will.” Jackson bites his bottom lip, hating the fact that Stiles can make him sound like a petulant kid just by being around him. “It’s not here, and I figure dying once before I’m 18 is enough for anyone.”

“It’s not going to change a damn thing, Jax. You’ll be alone without a pack to help you through this shit.” Before Stiles can finish whatever it is he thinks is so important to say, Jackson interrupts him.

“Don’t give me that, Stiles. What pack? Hale only turned me because he thought it’d kill me. He doesn’t give a shit about me. He left me for dead and went off to make others that he wanted more.” Jackson knows the wolf is there, can feel the change in his face, but Stiles doesn’t even flinch. He just stares and stands his ground, not afraid at all. “There’s nothing here for me so, yeah, I’m leaving. I can’t wait to get on that plane and get away from here.”

“Derek’s not a great alpha. He sucks, in fact. He’s made some bad decisions but he’s not the type to give the bite to someone he wants to see die.” Stiles shakes his head. “He’s an asshole, but he’s not cruel. The bite is a gift to him, means something, and you’re too stuck up your own ass to even try reaching out to him. He fucked up, but he knows it, and he’s trying. You’re his first beta, and that means something even if you don’t get it.”

“Did it mean something when he left me alone to turn into that _thing_? When I was killing people without even knowing it? Where was he then? Where was anyone? I was losing time and freaking out, and no one was there.” Jackson wants to growl the words, want to make them hurt the way he hurts, but it doesn’t happen that way. He hears the weakness in them, hears the ache. He turns and knocks the box off his bed, taking out his frustration and anger at Stiles seeing him like this.

“I’m sorry.” The words are whispered, soft and broken, and there’s no blip in Stiles’ heartrate at all. Jackson is panting, trying to get the wolf down, staring at the mess of shirts and trinkets now covering his floor. He stiffens when he feels a hand on his shoulder, closing his eyes when the hand squeezes, a familiar gesture he’s not felt in years. “I’m sorry, Jax.”

“I killed so many people,” he whispers, leaning his head back and keeping his eyes shut. “I remember it sometimes, flashes of these memories that are mine but aren’t. So much blood and pain. Not having any control at all. Fuck, I still don’t.”

“I can, uh, help you with that,” Stiles offers, keeping his voice soft. Jackson listens to his heartbeat, the steady thump, feeling his claws and fangs slowly recede. “I helped Sc—others. I’ve helped others so I can help you. If you stay.”

“There’s nothing to stay for, Mischief.” Jackson opens his eyes and looks over his shoulder, not annoyed for once that Stiles is taller than him by a couple of inches now. Normally, it pisses him off, the way everything about Stiles does, but it’s almost calming, in a way, tonight.

“Lies.” Stiles glances at his lips, a quick glance followed by him licking his own dry busted lips, and Jackson feels something in his gut that he hasn’t felt in months. Not since Lydia. Stiles stares into his eyes, making him forget about Lydia. “You’ve got me. Even if you don’t want them, you’ve got the pack. You’ve got Danny and Lydia. But, uh, yeah, you’ve got me. If that’s enough?”

Jackson turns around, facing Stiles again, only this time without much space at all between them. There’s a different scent in the air now, a sweet aroma that makes him want to indulge. It’s coming from him, he realizes, but also from Stiles. “Are you saying you want me?”

Stiles makes a choking noise, like he’s swallowed wrong. The sound and ensuring flush to his face makes Jackson feel stand straighter, has his confidence starting to rise. Stiles is full on blushing now, looking everywhere but at Jackson, and it’s amusing because it’s finally Jackson’s turn to stare and analyze.

“I didn’t say—I didn’t mean—“ Stiles is actually stammering, his heartbeat racing all over the place. He looks at Jackson and he makes a face. “You don’t have to look like you’re enjoying this, you know?”

“Enjoying what?” He looks Stiles over deliberately, enjoying the sweet scent filling the air around them. “Your sexual identity crisis?”

“Bit late for that one, Jax. Had it years ago,” Stiles says, rolling his eyes. “And, yeah, I guess I am saying that. What you said.” He scratches at his head and smiles wryly. “I want you.” He pauses when Jackson feels himself start to preen, just a little. “To stay. I want you to stay.”

“Yeah, right. That’s all you want.” Jackson knows the truth now, and it gives him a bit of power back. To know Stiles is hot for him and wants him enough to come over to his house to ask him to stay in Beacon Hills. He leans over, tilting his head up slightly, his cheek brushing against Stiles’ face as he whispers against his ear, “I’ll think about it.”

“You jerk.” Stiles shoves him, half laughing and half cursing as Jackson grabs his hands before they can shove him again.

“Yet you want me to stay. What does that say about you?” Jackson asks, smiling slightly as Stiles strokes his thumb over his knuckles. “My dad’s gonna be pissed.”

“Is he?” Stiles doesn’t look like he cares at all. “That’s too bad.”

“No, it’s not.” Jackson huffs a laugh. “My mom will be thrilled, so he’ll keep his mouth shut.”

“Your mom has excellent taste. I’m awesome.” Stiles shrugs before asking, “So you’re really going to stay?”

“I don’t know.” Jackson has to be honest, knowing how Stiles feels about people lying to him. He feels Stiles’ fingers spasm and holds his hands a little tighter. “It’s been years, Stiles. One brief talk and you wanting to get in my pants isn’t enough to just make this all go away or make it easy.”

“I don’t want in your pants, Jax. I want to help you figure all this out and to be there. Friends like we used to be. Seeing you die…knowing it was you…it made me realize some things, okay?” Stiles sighs when Jackson arches a brow at him. “Yeah, okay, I _do_ want in your pants, so that was a lie, but the rest is the truth and you know it.”

“I'll make you a deal. My flight isn’t scheduled until next month. Why don’t we take each day as it comes and see what happens?” Jackson suggests, knowing this is too big a decision to make on a whim because he likes how Stiles smells now and misses him more than he cares to admit.

“I’m not the most patient person,” Stiles grumbles before perking up. “But that gives me time to win you over with my mad research skills and werewolf whisperer talents. So, yeah, you’ve got a deal.”

“Good.” Jackson lets go of Stiles’ hands and leans down to pick up the stuff he’d thrown on the floor. He gets their baseball and tosses it, slowly smiling when Stiles catches it and looks pleased with himself. “So, mad research skills huh? What do you know about werewolves with tails?”

End

**Author's Note:**

> You can follow me on [Tumblr](http://inell.tumblr.com)


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